“They must have had some references for him. An address, phone number, something,” she ventured.
“That’s what they’re checking now, although most of it has turned out to be fake. They must have been in a hell of a hurry to get him on board. Anyway, our people figure that whoever he is, he’s long gone. Must have slipped by the road blocks. The governor ordered the Fort Myers Airport shut down too. Of course, he could have taken a back road and flown out of Miami. No one considered closing that airport. At first the hotel people were talking about gas leaks, not terrorists. So, there was a slight lag in the time frame.”
Brett took another swig of coffee and went on. “Let’s focus on motive for a minute. What if you were the target? What if it was personal? After all, the news has linked you to this trafficking issue and a whole list of threats you’re working on. Maybe someone is trying to stop you in your tracks.” He paused and eyed her. “How in the world do you stay so calm when you’re dealing with all of this?”
“I work in the most guarded eighteen acres on the planet,” she said with a rueful look. “And why would anyone think he or she could stop the efforts of the whole government by eliminating me? I mean, whenever our people are attacked—government or civilian—that’s when we really get serious. After 9/11, we geared up so much that it’s almost impossible to keep track of who heads what bureau at any one time. And last I heard, the FBI had over thirteen thousand special agents and even more analysts. Is that about right?”
He nodded. “Combined,” she said, “there are hundreds of thousands of people with various clearances protecting the country.” She hesitated a moment and added, “Of course, sometimes someone gets a top secret clearance who should never have been hired in the first place.”
Brett smiled.
She gave him a slight smile in return and said, “I know none of this is news to the FBI. As for the person or group responsible for this attack, they can’t kill us all. So, what about you? You probably deal with the same thing or worse.”
Brett shifted in his seat. “I guess.” He gingerly fingered a small scar on the side of his cheek, a reminder of a fight with a crime boss. It wasn’t his only scar. Just the most obvious one. “But I’m here to jog your memory. If you were a target, why were you attacked there? Did you notice anyone tailing you around Naples? Anyone who seemed out of place at the dinner or before you got there? Do you remember anything at all that could help us?”
Samantha sat back for a long moment. “I remember arriving Saturday morning at the Fort Myers airport,” she finally said. “It was crowded, and it seemed like more people were leaving than arriving. Probably all the snowbirds heading north for the summer. I didn’t notice anyone following me at the airport.”
She hesitated before continuing. “My friend picked me up. We drove down I-75 to Naples and had lunch at the Port Royal Club. Nothing strange there. Later we drove to the Ritz. Can’t say we were followed. I wasn’t looking out the back window. When we got to the hotel entrance, I saw the governor’s limo pull up. He was surrounded by his security people. Nothing odd about that.”
“What about the others you were with that night? We have a guest list, but we don’t know who was in what group,” Brett said.
“I was with Tripp Adams. He works in the private sector, VP of GeoGlobal Oil & Gas. And his parents. His dad is a retired CEO. His mother is the one who’s on the board of the Everglades charity group. That’s why we were there.”
Brett grabbed a leather folder from his briefcase, opened it, and scanned a long list. “So, Tripp Adams. Would that be Hamilton Bainbridge Adams III?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Well, yes,” Samantha admitted with a slight sigh. “He hates the long name. That’s why he goes by Tripp. I doubt he was a target, though. He negotiates oil leases around the world.”
“I agree,” Brett said, jotting down some notes. “Let’s get back to you. How would anyone know you had left Washington and were going to Florida? And how would any potential enemies know you were going to a fundraiser on a Saturday night? I know top White House officials are often watched, shall we say, by foreign operatives, but in Naples?”
“I know, I’ve thought about that too. All I can think of is a clipping Mrs. Adams showed me from a social column in her local newspaper about the dinner. It listed a number of people who were on the guest list, like the governor, the board members. And yes, my name was also there. It was all in a press release the Everglades committee compiled to get publicity for the event. It was on their website too.”
“Was that smart?” Brett asked.
“Obviously not,” Samantha said. “But I wasn’t in charge of that one.”
“You do get a lot of publicity on your own, though.”
She nodded. “It all started with a leak to a New York paper about our efforts to track weapon shipments,” she said. “I was really upset and started to feel like a piñata for the White House Press Corps during the follow up stories and all that. So, you’re right. There’s been more coverage about what we’re doing to shut down certain accounts that end up in the hands of the worst players. Agent Keating—”
“Why don’t you call me Brett?” he interrupted. “I assume you’ll want updates, so we’ll probably be in touch.”
“Absolutely. I know a lot of people are working on the investigation, but I really appreciate your coming over and keeping me up to speed on this.”
“And on that up-to-speed note,” Brett said, “here’s my card with my cell number.” He handed it to her. “If you think of anything, anything at all, please call me. Day or night.”
She studied the number and looked like she was committing it to memory. “Here I am working on all sorts of threats. But this is the first time I’ve felt I might have been . . . a target. And perhaps it was personal.”
SEVEN
TUESDAY DAWN;
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
SAMANTHA GRABBED THE CLOCK AND punched the alarm to stop the dreaded buzzing that always reminded her of a swarm of bumble bees. 5:45 a.m. The first rays of light were seeping through her plantation shutters. As she threw back the covers on her standard double bed, the largest that would fit into her miniscule bedroom, she made a mental note to buy a new clock the next time she had a chance to go shopping, which was never these days.
She didn’t mind the tight quarters too much, though. Perched on the second floor, she had a decent view of the park across lower K Street where she could jog along the Potomac River. The park was a stone’s throw from the shops and restaurants at Washington Harbour and a few blocks from the very heart of Georgetown.
Samantha pushed her hair out of her eyes, grabbed her robe, and began her morning routine, one that would get her to the office by 6:30 a.m. As she walked to her galley kitchen, a small yawn reminded her why she had moved to this red-brick complex with underground parking. With a condo overlooking the Whitehurst Freeway—which wasn’t a real freeway, just a shortcut to downtown—she was close to the White House. Unfairly close. Her seven-minute commute was unheard of in D.C. And she had her supervisor at the Department of Energy to thank for it.
When he was named White House Director of Homeland Security, he brought her with him to the West Wing as his deputy. Moving closer to the White House had helped her put in the long hours necessary to perform well in her new role. Her ability to analyze and synthesize complicated issues hadn’t hurt either. At first she focused on energy and nuclear threats, but she quickly shifted to issues in all six directorates dealing with chemical, biological, and transportation threats and other threatened sectors. It wasn’t long before the chief of staff started asking her to prepare briefing papers for presidential news conferences. But after a few years, her boss was charged with a hit-and-run assault and had to resign. That’s when the chief of staff promoted her to the top job with a direct report to the head of the NSC, Ken Cosgrove.
When she padded into the kitchen, Samantha made a small pot of coffee, forked open an English muf
fin, and started the toaster. She flicked on a small TV on the counter and clicked to Fox News to catch the latest. The anchor summarized the investigation in Naples, saying no suspects were in custody. Nothing new there. Samantha often knew the biggest news stories long before Fox or CNN or any other network. Yet she always found herself tuning in and switching between channels to see how developments were reported and analyzed. It was also interesting to try and guess who had leaked what to which reporter.
She frowned as the anchor estimated the damages caused by the explosion. For the first time in her life, she felt slightly vulnerable and off-kilter. Samantha switched the feed to CNN and checked the toaster as the new anchor introduced CNN’s White House correspondent.
“We’re expecting an announcement later this morning regarding the state visit by the Prime Minister of Great Britain. CNN has learned that the two leaders will be discussing upheavals in Pakistan amid worries over future control and proliferation of their nuclear arsenal, efforts by NATO and the European Union to contain further moves by Russia, and coordination to combat new types of cyber-crimes believed to be emanating from Bulgaria as well as China and North Korea. We will have more details after the noon briefing by the press secretary. Reporting from the White House, this is Luzelle Malanghu for CNN.”
How did she find out about the topics of discussion? We haven’t announced those yet. Some of the subjects are classified.
Samantha frowned more deeply.
We don’t just have leaks, we have a colander.
She grabbed the muffin as it popped up, spread a bit of butter and strawberry jam on it, poured a cup of coffee, and added cream and sugar to it. She carried her breakfast to the small, square table in her living room that served as a combination desk and dining spot. It was the only space that allowed her to eat while checking her two email accounts in the morning before heading to the White House. She took a sip from her mug, entered a password on her secure computer, and quickly scrolled down the official list of messages.
She saw a dozen notices from DHS and the Treasury, though nothing new on Naples. There was one from her friend Angela Marconi, now the number two in presidential scheduling, saying she was coordinating the president’s meeting with the Brits but might be free for lunch tomorrow. Then she switched to her personal email and stopped to read a note from Tripp.
Hi, Hon. Getting settled into my new place. Dallas is a lot hotter than DC, but the condo is great . . . not far from SMU. It’s about the same size as my place at Turnberry Tower. You’ll have to see it sometime. Heading down to South America day after tomorrow to negotiate another deal. Back to you later. . . . T.
As she reread his email, it reminded her of a piece of modern art—something open to interpretation.
See it some time? He’s probably never there. Just like he was never in D.C. when he had an office on K Street. And what is with that sign off? No “Love you, babe” or anything even close.
She gazed out her living room window toward Key Bridge. Ribbons of headlights streamed into the city and passed the tall outline of Turnberry Tower in Arlington. She remembered many evenings on its eighteenth floor, though she rarely enjoyed its view. Her fear of heights always kept her off the balcony, but that had never seemed to matter.
Samantha glanced at her watch and realized it was getting late. She quickly finished her muffin and reached for a final sip of coffee when her computer signaled a new government email. It was from the Situation Room. She scanned it, replied, “On my way, thanks,” and raced to her closet.
* * *
“Good morning, Ms. Reid,” the Secret Service agent said. She turned and hit a button that gave Samantha access to the Situation Room complex in the basement of the West Wing. The rooms were redone a few years ago. They had little resemblance to the original command center President Kennedy had set up to monitor the Cuban situation. Since that time, presidents frequently headed downstairs to check on the latest developments around the world, monitored 24/7 by dedicated staff. So dedicated that they refused to leave their posts when the rest of the White House was evacuated on 9/11.
Samantha headed into the Sit Room, as everyone called the area. The elaborate Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, or SCIF, was one of many throughout the White House and Executive Office Building. This one, equipped with secure video and phone lines, also had clocks set to the time zone of wherever the president happened to be. Right now, the clocks indicated that he was in D.C. Just upstairs, in fact.
When she started attending staff meetings and conferences in this Sit Room, she couldn’t help but compare it to Hollywood sets in movies, which often dreamed up a thrilling mélange of flashing lights, huge screens, and clattering banks of computer keys. She doubted if film producers would ever think the actual Sit Room was exciting enough to replicate realistically.
Samantha settled her cell phone into a special box at the entry. They were verboten inside. No flash drives or any other devices were permitted. She hurried to the back where the staff was compiling data and analyzing satellite images.
“Look at these, Ms. Reid,” an officer said, handing her several photos. “They were taken by our birds covering Pakistan and Kashmir.”
She studied the grainy blow-ups. “Looks like Russian markings on those big crates.”
“We think so. Same with this second set we took along the Colombian border. First one could be for that terrorist group, Lashkar-e-Taiba. Ever since their main cell was taken down by Indian forces, their remaining members have been recruiting again.”
“Yes, that’s the same group that stole cruise missiles. But they were stopped by Cameron Talbot’s new missile defense system,” Samantha observed.
“But now we’ve seen some reports speculating they might try to attack India again,” the officer said.
“Thus the new shipments,” Samantha said.
“As for the Colombia pics, they’re undoubtedly meant for FARC. Same markings. They keep signing various agreements with the government, but they all seem to fall through.” The staffer pulled another set of photos to the center of his desk and pointed to the top one. “I don’t know if you saw this particular picture we captured a while ago of the Jewish school that was hit by Hamas.”
Samantha stared at the enlargement showing relief workers carrying bloodied kids away from a burning building. The picture of little children surrounded by what could only be anguished parents hit Samantha so hard, she caught her breath. “I heard about the attack but never saw close-ups like these. Those poor kids.”
The officer put another photo on top of the pile. “This shows a shipment that Hamas received right before that attack.”
Samantha peered at the second shot. “Same Russian markings as the new ones. We have to stop these shipments,” Samantha said, grabbing photos from the two piles and shoving them into a folder with her meeting notes. “Thank you for this,” she said. As she headed toward the conference room, she muttered under her breath, “Whatever it takes, I will find a way to stop those bastards.”
“Hope you can track those shipments,” the staff member called after her, and then turned back to his console.
Samantha walked down a short hall, stepped onto navy carpeting, and took a seat at a long, polished, wood table. She checked her watch and waited for Ken Cosgrove and Homer Belford to get there. She always tried to arrive early so that she could quickly review her talking points and never keep the boss waiting.
“Hey, Samantha, good to see you. Got a few updates for you today,” Homer said, ambling in and settling into a charcoal gray leather chair. He pulled some papers out of his briefcase. “Is Ken coming to this one?”
Samantha glanced up at the brilliant head of FinCen, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network at the Treasury Department. In his slightly rumpled suit, he didn’t exactly resemble the super detail-oriented math whiz she knew he was. She guessed that he was so focused on his research and spread sheets that he didn’t have much time to shop at Br
ooks Brothers. Not that she cared. Samantha was glad to be working with the slightly unkempt accounting guru on her latest project.
“Hi, Homer. Yes, Ken should be here in a few minutes,” she said. “Thanks for driving over from Virginia. Must be a drag with all the traffic.”
“It was terrible. I usually like working at our McLean office, but it took me forty-five minutes to get across Chain Bridge and into town this morning.”
“Well, you know we only have two seasons in Washington: winter and construction.”
Homer chuckled.
“When he gets here, I want to show him some new satellite photos that could indicate a whole slew of arms shipments to Lashkar and FARC,” she said. “At least those would be high on our list of suspects. They’re also from the same syndicate that sells to Hamas.”
“About Lashkar, didn’t the shoe bomber, Richard Reid, belong to that crowd at some point?” Homer asked.
“Sure did,” she said. “That’s why we still have to take our shoes off at the airport.”
“Unless you’re about seventy-five,” Homer said. “The Reid terrorist? Guess you’re not related,” he added with a grin.
“Get serious,” she said and smiled.
The national security advisor strode into the room. “Sorry to keep you waiting. First, have you picked up anything new on the Naples explosion?”
Samantha shook her head. “Not really. I met with an FBI agent yesterday. They have a sketch of a possible suspect, but they have no clue who he is or where he is.”
“We’ll let those experts handle that investigation,” Ken said. “We’re all just relieved you got out of there when you did.” Samantha smiled weakly as her boss continued. “I’ve talked to the president about our priorities for the British visit. Are they helping us enough on your projects, Homer?”
The Treasury aide looked up and said, “Actually, they’ve been terrific lately. We’re working with them and the Portuguese on transfers in and out of a bank in Macau. When the Cyprus banks imploded several years ago, a lot of those customers moved their business to Macau and other places like Malta. The Russians still lost a bundle, though. They had five times more money deposited in Cyprus than that country’s whole GDP. So, now we have to figure out where they’ve parked what’s left.”
Trust But Verify Page 3